He didn’t stop her, just joined her in running through downtown alleys until finally they reached the railroad tracks. Cash slowed down to a sprint and kept going along the tracks until she reached a trestle that ran over the Red River. Finally, she came to a walk, then walked through a trail in the brush until they reached a clearing where they could sit and look down at the river. Cash pulled the beer out from her back waistband, laughing as she felt the wetness of her jeans where the beer had spilled out and down her butt as she ran. The bottle was still three-quarters full though. She handed it to Long Braids and flopped on the ground to catch her breath, laughing.
He took a drink and said, “Why are we running?”
Cash was still laughing, couldn’t stop. When she tried to take a drink, beer splashed out her nose.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked when she caught a breath.
“Just dropping by to see you before I head out east. Gonna see if I can join that American Indian Movement down in Minneapolis. Heard they’re planning some kind of protest out on the East Coast this fall.”
“Oh really? How the hell did you find me?”
“When we were in Fargo, I kept the matchbook you had. It said the Casbah. I stopped by there first and the bartender told me you were playing in a tournament over at the Flame. So I went over there.”
“I see,” said Cash. “Why were you standing around outside the Flame?”
Long Braids took another drink as she passed him the bottle. “I was actually inside most of the night. But you were pretty intent on winning. I didn’t want to break your concentration. Besides, I wasn’t too sure what was going on between you and the white guy. I thought I’d try to catch you as you were leaving, so I went outside to find your Ranchero, but didn’t see it.”
“He’s a friend. I walked.”
“What the hell happened that sent you hightailing it out of there?”
“Stupid, stupid stuff. The waitress accused me of sticking a beer bottle in my purse to carry it out of the bar.” Cash started laughing. “I don’t carry a purse.” She finished the beer and threw the bottle in a high arc out towards the river. They heard it splash.
“Guess I’ll be 86’d out of the Flame for a while. Damn shame, that’s where I make my rent money.”
Cash stood up and brushed the leaves and dirt off her butt and turned to walk back up the bank. Long Braids did the same. “Where we going?” he asked. Cash didn’t answer, just kept walking.
He followed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The historical trauma Native people live with today was not a path of their own choosing. From 1819 to 1934, Native children were systematically removed from families and put into boarding schools.
There they grew up like prisoners of war, punished for speaking their languages, punished for talking to their siblings if they crossed paths. A hundred and fifteen years of children not seeing a mom and dad raise children. One hundred and fifteen years of children growing up not knowing how to hold a baby or protect a toddler. What they learned was to settle disagreements with silence, withdrawal or violence.
Then they were sent home to the newly created reservation system where up until the mid-1960s, it was common practice for county and state social workers to scoop up Native children and remove them to white foster or adoptive homes. Sandy White Hawk, Director of the First Nations Repatriation Institute, says, “I cannot imagine the entitlement the social worker must have felt to walk into a family and just take a child. I cannot imagine how emasculating it must have been for our men to watch that happen and not be able to do anything. My uncle remembers the social worker driving into our driveway, getting out of the car and taking me.”
White Hawk relates how on a national level 25-35% of Native children were taken and placed in non-Indian homes or institutions. In Minnesota, one in four were removed. White Earth and Red Lake reservations experienced higher removals. For each lost child, there is a set of grieving parents, siblings, grandparents, aunties and uncles.
As members of sovereign tribal governments, Native American children have a unique political status that was reaffirmed with the passage of the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978. With this Act of Congress, “ICWA sets federal requirements that apply to state child custody proceedings involving an Indian child who is a member of or eligible for membership in a federally recognized tribe.” Each child, by Act of Congress, should have state welfare agencies work in the best interest of the child to place the child with a family member or extended family of the tribe.
This Act was not in place during Cash’s lifetime. While this is a book of fiction, the story of removal, heartbreak, post-traumatic-stress symptoms and generational trauma Cash exhibits are all too true. What is equally true of so many survivors of that time is Cash’s resiliency in the face of such extreme early trauma.
You will find more informaiton on these websites:
http://www.edweek.org/ew/projects/2013/native-american-education/history-of-american-indian-education.html
http://www.wearecominghome.com
http://www.nicwa.org/Indian_Child_Welfare_Act/history
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people have made it possible for me to write. First, the ‘eat and meet’ writing group, started by Babs with Ellen and Ida. Next the ‘Sunday morning writes’ at Diego’s abode. And the group with Diane, Nora, Mai Neng and Donna who read this manuscript over and over. Danny, who has always believed in my writing. Eileen, thanks are not enough. Jeanne and Liz: State Fair, foster kids and North Shore. And ALL the women in my life who have helped with children, food and emotional sustenance, you are in my heart forever.
Murder on the Red River Page 17